FlabberGassed

by Michael Craft

  “But you are the duly elected sheriff of Dumont County.”

  He gave me a slow, knowing nod. “And that’s the part I always wanted so bad I could taste it. The office. The respect. The validation.”

  I studied him for a moment without speaking. He was dressed, as always, in a dark, dapper suit, immaculate white shirt, and a smart silk tie with just enough snap to convey his strong self-confidence; today’s stripes were pink and gray. It would be easy to assume his clothes were merely a symbol of what he’d achieved. But if that were the case, he’d also be flaunting his gun and his badge, which were both tucked away. No, for my friend Sheriff Simms, the care with which he always presented himself said loud and clear, but simply, This is who I am.

  And at the opposite end of the spectrum, I recalled, was Alex Kastle. For the ambitious deputy, it was all about the gun and the badge—even on his day off, on a Sunday while playing rent-a-cop for Dr. Frumpkin.

  “And now,” I told Simms, “someone’s trying to kill your dream.”

  He ambled around to the far side of the picnic table and sat. As I turned to face him, he leaned forward on his elbows. “When I read this morning’s paper, I nearly cried.”

  “Thomas—”

  “But big boys don’t cry, right? So I didn’t. Instead, I took a more objective look at the election, and it became pretty clear—if it wasn’t before—that the outcome is not in the bag. And I determined that there are two things I need to do.”

  “Great,” I said. “What’s the plan?”

  “First, and most obvious, I need to start taking Deputy Kastle’s threat much more seriously.”

  “What a prick,” I said with a snort, then backed off. “I mean, sorry—he’s your deputy.”

  “Not by my choice,” Simms assured me. “He was already on the force when I joined the department. Those days, I never much liked him, so I didn’t pay him any attention. But then, when I was promoted to detective, he didn’t bother hiding his resentment.”

  “Well, after all”—I grinned—“you were uppity.”

  “Uh-huh. And then, when I ran for sheriff—and won—Kastle suddenly found himself working for me. Not what he had in mind. Later, when he applied for promotion to the rank of detective, I nixed it. That sealed our ‘friendship.’ And now? He must figure the only way to get promoted is to take my job.”

  “I can well understand why you don’t like Kastle, but was there a particular reason for nixing his promotion?”

  With a note of weariness, Simms explained, “He has a history of temperament issues, as well as some dangerous views, none of which belong in law enforcement. Not sure how he managed to pass the psychological evaluation when he was first hired, but he did. And now, without serious cause, it’s hard to get rid of him. Plus, in the context of the election, if I even tried something like that, it would come across as shenanigans. So Kastle is just a fact of life—at least until this is over.”

  Mulling all this, I asked Simms, “What was Kastle’s background—before he joined the department?”

  “Glad you asked. I was never much curious—till I read that story this morning. So I did some digging in his files. Turns out, his time in the military involved a stint as a medic. And that training qualified him as an EMT when he got out. But I guess the ambulance work wasn’t exciting enough for him, and that’s when he switched to law-enforcement training.”

  I searched Simms’s face for a clue to his thoughts about the information he’d just shared, but his expression was blank, as if waiting for my reaction. “Bottom line,” I said, “is that Kastle has some medical background.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if the switched-gas theory holds up as the explanation for Jason Ward’s death, whoever did it probably had at least some medical knowledge.”

  “Reasonable, yes.”

  “So,” I asked, “what does this tell you? You said you had a two-part plan.”

  “Right. The first part was to take Kastle’s election threat much more seriously, which I’m now doing. And the second part is not to allow Kastle to be in any way involved with this investigation. He’s already tried to use a suspicious death to his political advantage, and now I’ve come to understand—at least in theory—that Kastle could have been more than just a chance witness to that death.”

  My eyes bugged. “You mean, you think—”

  “I’m not going that far, Brody. Not yet. But meanwhile, I have ample evidence to conclude that Kastle can’t be trusted.” Simms paused. Looking me in the eye, he added, “But I can trust you. And I could use your help.”

  This was not what I’d expected. With a quiet laugh, I told Simms, “Earlier this morning, when Mary Questman all but begged me to insinuate myself into the investigation, I assumed you’d want no part of it.”

  “On the contrary,” Simms assured me, “I think she had a fine idea.”

  “Her cat thought of it.”

  He grinned. “Be that as it may, I find the prospect of your involvement quite promising. First, you’ve done this before—with the Zakarian matter. And second, you’ve had a working relationship with both Frumpkin and his daughter—your insights into this whole FlabberGas scheme are way deeper than mine.”

  Good grief, I thought. Even the sheriff assumed that Frumpkin’s proposed business venture boiled down to a scheme that verged on fraud.

  “Do you have time for this?” Simms asked.

  “I’ll make time—of course.”

  “For instance,” he said, “I wonder if you could pay a visit and do a little digging with both Glee Savage and Mary’s housekeeper.”

  “Sure, great. Mary is sick with worry about Glee and Berta.”

  “Exactly. This needs to be handled with … delicacy. If I called them in, it would appear far too intimidating, and I don’t want to upset them—or Mary. Truth is, I have no serious suspicion of either Glee or Berta, but they sure looked suspicious yesterday, in front of a crowd of witnesses, so we need to address that.”

  “Understood,” I said. “When do you want me to do this?”

  “They’re not a high priority. Anytime this week is fine. However, this afternoon—”

  “Wow,” I blurted, “you’re not wasting any time, are you?”

  “Can’t. Kastle himself said it. He said it in print: ‘the clock is now ticking.’”

  That afternoon, Dr. Francis Frumpkin and his daughter, Sarah Frumpkin Ward, were scheduled to meet with Simms in his office. Simms asked if I could be there as well. I agreed to return after lunch.

  So I ate lunch at my desk that day, catching up with some of the work I’d missed that morning. After dealing with a backlog of old e-mails, I sent a message to Glee Savage, asking if we might meet on Wednesday. She replied within seconds: “Of course, love. Anytime for you. Just let me know when and where.”

  Marson had driven to a neighboring town for lunch with prospective clients, but I was able to reach him in his car as I walked the few blocks from our office, on my way back to meet Simms. I said into the phone, “This morning was all gung-ho adrenaline: Sure, Sheriff, sign me up, I’m in! But this afternoon, I’m feeling sorta queasy about it. I mean, Frumpkin and Sarah, they’re dealing with a death in the family, a sudden death that looks like murder. And me? I’m just dealing with a puzzle. Maybe I’ve waded into something where I don’t belong.”

  “Kiddo,” said Marson, “trust Simms. Even if, at first, it feels like a game to you, Simms has the perspective of experience. He knows what he’s doing—and he asked you to be there.”

  So I arrived at the county complex a few minutes before one-thirty, as requested. As before, the deputy outside the sheriff’s office told me, “He’s expecting you.” She took me in, but the office was empty, and she led me through another door that opened into a conference room.

  Simms brightened when he saw me and waved me in; the deputy left. Someone else—I assumed it was a police stenographer—was setting up a few feet away from the oblong conference table. The room had
a high ceiling with tall windows and venetian blinds that were tilted to admit abundant sunlight but no view; perhaps there was nothing to see outside other than a brick wall of the jail. Opposite the windows was a wall of wooden bookcases, brown and varnished, containing miscellaneous volumes and cockeyed binders of whatnot that didn’t appear to have been read, or dusted, in quite a while. On the wall behind Simms, who arranged a stack of file folders at the head of the table, hung a darkened old portrait, cracked by the passing of years, depicting a man with a horse and something that looked like a monkey. Simms saw me staring at it. With a shrug, he explained, “No one’s got a clue—it’s always been there.”

  The space was actually sort of pleasant, in an old-timey, comfy kind of way, bearing no resemblance whatever to the sterile, fluorescent interrogation rooms that pop up every night on cable.

  I asked Simms, “Anything I should know before they get here?”

  Simms sat at the head of the table and gestured for me to sit along the side, near him. “Brody,” he said, “I want you to stay focused on motive. I expect the conversation will ramble; in fact, I want it to. But while we’re dancing around with the details, keep in mind that if Jason Ward was murdered, the killer had to have: a motive to do it, the means to do it, and an opportunity to do it. Now, if the switched-gas theory holds up—and it’s just a theory at this point—it makes sense that either Dr. Frumpkin or his daughter probably had both the means and the opportunity to set it up. They have the knowledge and the access. But. What about motive? So keep that in mind today.”

  I nodded. He made perfect sense.

  The door opened. The deputy admitted Frumpkin and Sarah, then left.

  Simms and I both stood and moved over to greet them.

  Sarah looked like hell. Her husband was barely twenty-four hours dead, and the shock had taken its toll. Her eyes were swollen and bleary; her lips were crusty. Her hair looked as if she had just gotten out of bed, but it was evident she hadn’t slept. Since meeting her only six days earlier, I had consistently noted her drab choice of wardrobe, which today seemed lamentably well suited to her mourning.

  I wrapped her in a hug and blubbered condolences; she thanked me through teary sobs that left my cheeks wet, my lips salty.

  Dr. Frumpkin, though upset and shaken, was far better put-together than his daughter. Even under such trying conditions, his flashy sense of style did not fail him, though he had the good taste to tone down the palette, with silks of muted gray and somber maroon.

  When I offered a hand in sympathy, he opted instead for a bear hug, clinging so tight and so long that I half-expected Sarah to tell him, Christ, Dad, get a room. But of course she did not.

  And moments later, we were seated at the table, with Simms and me at our prior places and the new arrivals along the other side, across from me.

  Simms told them, “I know how difficult it must be for you to be here today, under these awful circumstances. And I truly appreciate your willingness to help us lay out the facts. So I want to assure you that our meeting today is just a conversation, a discussion. Please don’t consider it a questioning or interrogation.”

  Soothing words, indeed, but I couldn’t help thinking that the microphone planted on the table, as well as the soft but audible keystrokes of the stenographer, sent a different message.

  Dr. Frumpkin said, “Thank you, Sheriff. I know your only purpose is to get to the truth. Sarah and I want to assist you in any way we can. And I’m delighted to see our young friend Brody here today”—he winked at me—“but I must admit, I’m a bit surprised, as well.”

  I thought I’d better let Simms address that.

  He said, “Brody was a prime witness yesterday, right up front—in front of me, in fact. I’ve also come to know him as a very … visual, observant sorta guy. I think he might be able to contribute to our conversation, so I asked him to join us.”

  “Excellent, Sheriff. I couldn’t agree more.” Frumpkin’s tone was a little too flirtatious for comfort, especially in the grim context of sudden, unexpected death.

  Sarah offered tepid agreement with her father, nodding with a weak smile. She had a faraway look that drifted beyond the sheriff’s shoulder, as if staring into the vast unknown that had consumed her husband.

  Frumpkin asked, “I know it’s still early—in your investigation, I mean—but do you have any idea when they might release Jason’s body? We’ll need to arrange some sort of memorial, and I have to decide on a suitable mourning period for keeping the offices closed.”

  “Maybe a week for the coroner,” said Simms.

  Those logistics hadn’t occurred to me. I asked Frumpkin, “You’re shut down today, I presume?”

  Frumpkin nodded. “Someone is there to answer phones and juggle appointments, but I doubt that we’ll get back to normal soon, if ever. I mean, Jason’s now gone, and I’ve been looking forward to retirement, and Sarah”—Frumpkin wrapped an arm around her—“poor baby, Sarah’s just a mess.”

  She whimpered, still gazing into the void beyond Sheriff Simms. She said, “It’s bad enough for me, but what about Olivia? She’s so young. Maybe she doesn’t fully understand what happened. She seemed surprised when I told her she wasn’t going to school today. She’ll go tomorrow, but I have no idea how her classmates might react to the news—or to Olivia herself. I’m afraid all the fuss could really disturb her.”

  As if the kid wasn’t wacky enough already, I thought. But I reminded myself to take a more charitable view of the child, who had just lost her father. I asked, “If Olivia isn’t in school, where is she today?”

  “Dahr has her,” said Frumpkin. “She seems to like him.”

  Sarah added, “He’s good with her.”

  Simms said, “Let’s talk about Dahr Ahmadi. I interviewed him at length yesterday afternoon at the clinic. Most accommodating—very thorough with his answers. It’s apparent he has a complete working knowledge of the practice. How long has he been with you?”

  “At least five years,” said Frumpkin.

  “Six,” said Sarah.

  Simms said, “Let me ask a blunt question. If, as it appears, Jason was murdered, do you have any suspicion at all that Dahr might have been responsible?”

  “Preposterous,” said Frumpkin, leaning into the table. “He’s one of the sweetest, most affable young men I’ve ever met. I’d trust him with my business; I’d trust him with my life. And in fact, I’d like to build a life with him. To answer your question, Sheriff—Dahr would never harm a fly. It’s unthinkable that he could ever concoct a sufficient reason to kill Jason.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sarah, “unthinkable.”

  But I could think of a reason. Although I didn’t believe Dahr might be a killer, I did recall Frumpkin telling me on Friday that there was enmity between Dahr and Jason, that Jason was jealous of Frumpkin’s affection for Dahr and its possible consequences for the future of the practice and, by implication, Jason’s legacy in the business. I myself witnessed the tension between them at Mary Questman’s house, and I saw it again Sunday at the deadly demo.

  Sheriff Simms had also noticed. “Yesterday, after Jason got into the pressure capsule, there was an odd moment, a testy exchange—when Jason realized that Dahr would be manning the controls. And Dahr responded to him, ‘I know what I’m doing, Doctor.’ In retrospect, doesn’t that concern you?”

  Frumpkin assured him, “Not at all, Sheriff. It’s all a matter of context. And the context was not murder.”

  “Not at all,” agreed Sarah, still gazing into the void beyond Simms. Then she sputtered a noise that sounded almost like laughter. “Is that … is that a monkey?”

  “Good heavens,” said Frumpkin, taking notice, then laughing so hard I thought he might slap his knee.

  And from that point forward, the interrogation—or rather, our fact-finding “conversation”—went downhill.

  When it seemed to be wrapping up, I was still troubled by the suspicion of Dahr that had been voiced by Simms. Perhaps he was o
nly being thorough, considering every remote possibility, but I firmly believed he was on the wrong track. I suggested, “Maybe I could get together with Dahr. Have a talk. Sound him out.”

  “Fine with me,” said Simms. “Go for it.”

  With a roguish grin, Frumpkin wagged a finger at me. “No poaching, Brody.”

  It was a ridiculous thing for him to say—and baldly inappropriate to the gravity of our meeting. Still, Frumpkin had picked up on something I found difficult to admit to myself. Certainly, I found Dahr attractive. Who wouldn’t? Marson did. But that didn’t mean I had any intention, even an inkling, to “poach” the guy Frumpkin was pursuing.

  And yet, you bet, I was excited by the prospect of knowing Dahr better.

  After Frumpkin and Sarah had left, Simms dismissed the stenographer and asked me to wait. Standing with me near the closed door, he asked, “Any reactions?”

  I returned to the table and sat. “Frumpkin seemed a little too matter-of-fact, as if he was merely tending to the details of tidying up after a sloppy mishap. But maybe that’s just his way of tamping down the emotion.”

  “Exactly,” said Simms, joining me at the table. “Over the years, I’ve seen a lot of people in tragic situations, and believe me—they all have different ways of dealing with grief.”

  “And then,” I said, “there’s Sarah. While Frumpkin seemed to be underreacting, Sarah was taking it much harder than I would’ve thought. In the brief time I’ve known her, she’s always been so down-to-business. But today, I saw some very raw emotions.”

  Simms nodded, repeating, “Different ways of dealing with grief.”

  “It shouldn’t surprise me, I guess. Good God, to lose your husband like that, the person you love most—how awful.”

  Simms asked, “It was a good marriage?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. They seemed a little harried and busy, but who isn’t? Other than that, they struck me as loving, equal partners—in both business and life.”

  “Okay, then,” said Simms. “The big question: I asked you to focus on motive. We agreed that either Frumpkin or his daughter probably had the means and the opportunity to kill Jason—if they were so inclined—but did either have a plausible motive to do it?”